I’ll tell you of a man I knew by name of Gassy Dan. It’s true he was a glutton—a mountain of a man. A sopper-up of every bowl, a scraper of each pan.
He wasn’t the most pleasant guest to ever grace one’s table, for his appetite was something of legend and of fable as he gobbled up more than his share whenever he was able.
Once seated at the table, though, he never had enough of pork chop and of gravy, still he’d commence to huff and puff about some gossip with language rude and rough.
With his slanderous assertions, his posturings and brayings, his sanctimonious protests and all of his trite sayings, he punished all our eardrums with incessant oral flayings.
Thus the rumblings at our table as we commenced to sup were not his gastric gasses growling like a pup. His borborygmus rumblings came from farther up.
The Ragtag prompt for the day is borborygmus. bor·bo·ryg·mus (a rumbling or gurgling noise made by the movement of fluid and gas in the intestines.)
Donald met a speed bump. They’ve hung him out to dry. He can’t understand for he is an upstanding guy. He’s everybody’s hero. His daughter tells him so. He has a stunning hairdo. He has plenty of dough. The charges that they’re making? It’s clear that they’re just jealous. This is what a POTUS gets who’s handsome, smart and zealous.
He sneaks down the darkened hallway. He knows it’s somewhere here. He finally finds the kitchen. He knew that he was near. They’ve locked the fridge and cupboards to protect him from assassins, but he knows where keys are hidden and how the fridge unfastens. He creaks the door wide open and sees it on the shelf— the gallon of fudge ripple just waiting for himself.
He grabs a spoon and shuts the door. He locks it and he’s off, betrayed by not one footfall, one heavy breath or cough. He almost makes it back to where he can gorge undetected. When all at once a flashlight warns he’s soon to be inspected. It’s not the secret service that has caught him being naughty. It’s worse! It is Melania standing stern and haughty.
Sheepishly, he takes his ice cream cache back to the kitchen. A rumbling tummy preferable to her eternal bitchin’. Tomorrow he’ll slip off to his favorite namesake arches. Mcmuffins always compensate for midnight thwarted marches.
Three with Sausage, one with bacon should be the proper ration
To fuel this self-proclaimed hero as he messes up the nation.
The prompt: write a poem in which a villain faces an unfortunate situation, and is revealed to be human (but still evil).